The Key
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Sam finds one last chance to break Dean’s deal. All they have to do is find The Key... Farce from start to finish! I'm going to get a reputation for these off-the-wallers... Rated T for language. NO SEASON FOUR SPOILERS IN HERE!
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**  
_

_Special guest appearances and more than a few liberties taken. As the good Doctor likes to say: "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Just because you can, doesn't mean you should! But seriously, who could resist?_

_With the greatest debt of thanks to Joseph Campbell, whose book 'The Hero With A Thousand Faces' has done more to bolster my faith in season four than anything else. Mister Campbell, I thank you from the heart of my bottom…_

_Brought to you by the ratings 'T' for language, and 'F' for (complete and utter) farce._

* * *

**ONE**

Sam blinked and rubbed his eyes, looking up from the book in front of him. Old, decrepit, worn and musty, it smelt of the untold years it had sat in the library. He sighed, casting his eyes round the library room and then leaning back in his chair, wondering, not for the first time, what his brother was doing while he was making every effort to read any and all literature on breaking Crossroads deals.

He noticed the scant few people around the reading room. It made him ponder idly whether any of them had, like him, become so engrossed in their findings that they had totally forgotten to check the time.

He found that very likely.

He wondered if any of them had as good a reason as he to be in there, poring over mouldy pages at such a stupid wee hour of the morning.

Something told him he was alone on that one.

He sniffed, looked back at the book, and put his hand out to close it. He paused, spying a word under his thumb. For some reason it appeared to stand out, as if magnified to his tired brain. He leaned over and read the accompanying sentence. Then he skipped back and read the paragraph. Then he paged back and read the entire section. Then he read it again.

He stood slowly, refusing to let the shock and excitement make him jump and shout and run about the room in a mad panic. Instead, he picked up the book and carried it sedately to the help counter. He struck up a friendly conversation with the girl behind it, knowing that, whether she liked it or not, he was having that book away.

He had to.

For it held the key.

* * *

Sam pulled the Impala up at the motel, hastily shoving her into Park and squeaking the door open as fast as he could. He scrabbled at the plastic bag in his hands containing the large book, hefting it out of the door and ripping the keys from the ignition to lock her up. In his haste he dropped the keys in the mud and spent a furious minute swearing and cursing as he searched around for them in the early morning light.

He snatched them up, ignoring the drips of muddy water. With a firm grip on the book he ran for the motel room door. He bumped into it, searching for his door key carelessly.

He shoved the key in the door, wanging it open quickly and racing in. He slammed it behind him and clutched the large book to his chest, grinning in excitement.

"Dean!" he called at the bed farthest from him, running over. He plonked himself on the side of the bed, putting a hand to the blanket and rocking it fiercely. "Dean! Wake up! I got--"

The blanket moved and he realised what he was pushing at was most definitely not a shoulder. Neither was it Dean.

"Mornin'," said the girl, blinking open weary eyes and smiling at him. Sam let his mouth fall loose at the vision of chestnut-haired beauty before him. She put a hand up and pushed his from her. "Don't put your hand there, sweetie," she sighed.

He sprang off the bed and swallowed, mortified.

"I'm - er - er - sorry!" he spluttered.

"That's ok," she breathed, rolling onto her back and putting her elbows underneath her leisurely. She looked around the room casually. "You seen my things anywhere?"

Sam stared at her, pointing his right hand out to the chair under the window.

"Thanks, honey," she smiled, pulling back the blankets to reveal she was entirely without any of her things. Sam closed his mouth quickly, turning his back to her and grabbing onto the book, his fingers digging into the old leather.

The door to the bathroom opened suddenly and Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Dean," he said, turning.

From the doorway, the girl in the bath towel shrieked and dropped it. Sam slapped a hand over his eyes, turning away from her quickly. His shocked fingers let go of the book and it slammed into his foot.

He cried out in pain, hopping away from them both and bending to get the book back without looking. The brunette by the window laughed, the girl in the doorway jabbering away as she rescued her towel.

"Woah woah woah!" came a loud voice. "What the hell's going on here?"

Sam recognised the voice and slid two fingers apart, still firmly over his eyes, to check it was in fact his brother.

"Dean?" he asked weakly.

"Yeah it's me," he snapped angrily. "What's with all the noise?"

Sam let his hand drop from his face, finding his brother was at least in his shorts. He was brushing past the blond in the doorway to the bathroom, a hand towel rubbing at his hair.

The brunette under the window, now in her top and skirt, started to explain. The blond in the recovered bath towel sat on a bed and started complaining, and Sam lifted the book and tried to describe his excitement and discovery.

"_Silence_!" Dean cried desperately, his hands up. "Just one at a time, shall we!"

Sam shuffled his feet, his frown settling into a thin line.

"This is important, man," he said stubbornly.

"Like '_put on the To Do list_' important or '_parts for ma Chevy_' important?" he asked quickly, tossing the towel onto a bed.

"Keeping you _driving_ your Chevy important," Sam said with a dark, knowing tone. Dean nodded briskly, letting his hands drop.

"Ok, that means you girls are out of here," he said, turning at looking at them both.

"Awww!" the brunette under the window protested. "But I don't have to be in Indiana till Wednesday!"

"That's as maybe, sweetheart, but my brother's got priority right now," he said helplessly, shrugging. He looked at the other girl. "You good?"

"Yeah," she allowed with disappointment. "I'll leave you my mobile number," she added, "so you don't have to call my office again." She got up off the bed and went back into the bathroom, towel and all.

The brown-haired girl turned back to the chair under the window, pulling open her small clutch purse and a pen. She found a till receipt and scribbled something on the back. She folded everything but the slip back into her purse before walking up to Dean.

"There, my home number in case my mobile's out of battery. Next time," she said with a wide smile, pushing the paper into his hand, "tell your brother he can come earlier." She put a hand to Dean's head, kissing him firmly by the mouth. "See you round. I hope."

"Me too," Dean breathed, watching her stand back and then walk to the door. She let herself out.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?" Sam demanded angrily, slapping at his shoulder.

"Ow! What does it look like?" he shot back. "You need a diagram now? Has it been that long?"

"Shut up," Sam snapped. "I came here because I've got something to show you. It's important. It might just get you off your--"

He stopped, annoyed, as the bathroom door opened again. The girl bounced out, flicking long bond hair over her shoulder and walking to the bed. She bent over to find something, then turned and walked over to Dean.

"Here. Call me next week," she winked. "I'll be back from the conference. Just make sure you call my mobile, don't go through the office and end up with my secretary again, last time his writing was so bad I thought were some guy named Sean," she added with disgust. She stroked at his face before looking past him at Sam. "Sorry about that," she said bravely.

"'S fine," Sam mumbled, his face dark. She smiled.

"See you soon," she said to Dean, nodding and letting herself out of the motel room. He let his shoulders sag and walked to his bed in disarray, sitting heavily.

"Now listen to me, Dean," Sam said quickly.

"What is it this time, Sam?" he asked wearily, wiping a hand over his face and looking up at him. "A passage in Latin that turns demons into angels? A magic stick to poke 'em in the eye? Some stinkin' root to poison their unholy water?"

Sam paused, unprepared for this.

"Look, I'm not trying to seem ungrateful, man, but… I don't want to hear this," Dean added, looking at the carpet between his bare feet.

"What? Why not?" Sam demanded.

"Cos I don't know how I'm going to deal with you being so disappointed all over again," Dean said harshly, looking at him. "Every time you're like '_hey Dean, look, all we have to do is look at the shiny spoon and say 'there is no spoon' and all this will just go away_'. But every time you're left with nothing but a long face and those eyes that make me want to jump off a bridge for you. So just quit it, alright? There is no way out. Face it," he said gently.

Sam's lip stuck out. "Three days, Dean. We've got three days. Do you want to see what's in this book or not?"

Dean stared at him, then shook his head slowly. "I swear, absolutely _nothing_ I say gets through to you, does it?"

"Not this week," Sam said resolutely. He walked over with the book, pulling it from the plastic and putting it on the bed behind his brother, opening it. "Just look at this," he said firmly.

Dean sighed, turning round and then leaning over to put the paper and card in his hand on the side table. He turned back to watch Sam page through the tome hastily.

"Here it is," Sam said quickly, twisting the book round to read. "It says here there's one thing in the world - above or below - that even demons are afraid of."

"Oh yeah? What's that, your karaoke skills?" Dean muttered, trying to read some of the passage. It appeared to be in a language other than English and he gave up.

"The full name's obscured here, but the meaning's easy to get," he said quickly. "A key. It's just a key."

"A key to what?" Dean asked, confused. "How's a key going to help?"

"I'm not sure," Sam admitted, and Dean looked at him. "But look, it says it's supposed to be used to open a tomb. The tomb's long-gone, but the key itself has power, Dean. It's supposed to have the power to kill any creature, real or unreal, and to literally create worlds out of nothing."

"Like a Trickster key?"

"Ah… yeah, I suppose. Except… this one can alter things, make them different, but for real. It could destroy Lilith."

Dean's eyes went to the curtains in the room as something was turned over and over in his mind.

"Wouldn't mind seeing that. So… even if this ain't going to save me, we could still kill her - like, wipe her out, not just send her back to the Bad Fire?"

"Yes," Sam nodded.

"Well I'm sold," he said abruptly. "Where do we have go to get this key?"

"Ah… not too far away, actually," Sam smiled, relieved his brother was amenable. He looked down at the book again. "Legend has it this key is kept in a place called _Supervacuus Ferrum_."

"_Supervacuus Ferrum_? As in… unwanted iron?" he asked. Sam nodded. "So do we know where this place is?" he asked, getting up and going to the chair under the window. He picked up his jeans as Sam sat down on the bed slowly.

"Oh yeah. Pack your passport, dude," he grinned.

"Oh please tell me it's Jamaica?"

"Not quite. British Columbia. That's in Canada, by the way."

* * *

Dean pulled the Impala over, looking around and gunning the engine before switching it off.

"Well here we are, over the border in lovely, chilly, damp B.C.," he said, looking round. "You sure this is right?"

"Absolutely," Sam said, nodding as he studied the map. "Somewhere round here - and I mean, within about three hundred yards - is the site previously known as Supervacuus Ferrum."

"Right," Dean smiled. "That's interesting, cos… it don't look much like unwanted metal to me."

Sam looked up at him, and he nodded to Sam's window. Sam turned and looked.

Two large iron gates were being guarded by a pair of sombre security men. They watched the black car and her two occupants with open curiosity, it seemed. Sam smiled slightly, and the two men smiled back.

He blinked, confused, and look back at Dean. "Shit. You think they built on it?"

"I think," Dean grinned, "this is a film set."

"You sure?" Sam asked, looking back at the gates. Beyond them certainly seemed to be a hive of activity, people walking to and fro carrying papers, coffee, props or banners. He looked at the beige walls, the security gatehouse arrangement, the vehicles moving about inside.

"What else could it be?" Dean asked, his eyes abruptly flashing with excitement.

"Then it can't be the place we'll find this key," Sam sighed.

"Why not?" Dean protested. "Maybe it's like… Maybe someone's got it in a props box somewhere, thinking it's a mock-up. How big is it supposed to be, anyway? Any pictures?"

Sam looked at him, tried to ignore his enthusiasm for the entire idea of possibly investigating a working film lot, and then looked back at the book in his lap. He paged through slowly.

"There aren't any pictures," he huffed. "No physical evidence at all."

"Great! So we don't even know what it looks like. Y'know, you could have told me this before I drove all the way over the border with a big-ass illegal arsenal hidden in the trunk," Dean groused.

Sam huffed as his eyes scanned through the book quickly, trying to find any reference to the key's appearance._ I am going to make this work. I am going to find the key, and I am going to get Dean off his deal. If it kills me. No, Lilith - and anyone else who gets in my way._

"Hey, what do you think they're making in there?" Dean asked, his voice quiet with pre-occupation. Sam noticed him peering past him to look through the gates. "Looks like some kind of horror flick - look," he added, gesturing with his chin.

Sam looked round to see a group of people talking and joking with the security guard on the left before he let them through the barrier.

"A rawhead, a zombie and a horribly disfigured murder victim walk onto a film lot," Dean grinned, and Sam looked at him. "Wait, I'm thinking of a punch-line."

"How about: this is not getting us anywhere," he said tightly, and Dean let his eyes roll to look out of his window as he sat back.

"Then what, Sammy? We're in friggin' _Canada_, in case you hadn't noticed. Don't know about you, but this is further from Kansas than I ever thought I'd be."

"Yeah," Sam muttered. "Look--"

"Dude, check it out," Dean said quickly, nudging Sam's shoulder and pointing back through Sam's window. "Coincidence?"

Sam looked round at the entrance again. The group of possible actors had moved inside and the outside was now visible again. He caught the production company sign on the gates and then did a double-take, staring.

"'_Kripke Entertainment and Scrap Metal_'?" he asked.

"Sound good to you?" Dean smiled with intent. Sam looked down at his lap, and the book. He opened it quickly.

"I think…" He paged through hastily, finding the right part. "Dean… I got it wrong," he said with abrupt worry.

"Whut?"

"Well… Look, it said a key, right? A key that could open a tomb - or a crypt."

"Yeah, and?"

"So it's a key to a _crypt,_" Sam said slowly. "A crypt key."

"Yeah, so?"

"So - maybe this key is not a thing at all - maybe it's a creature, or minor deity," he rattled off.

"How do you fig--"

"A crypt-key! A _crypt-key_! 'Kripke'!" he interrupted.

Dean whistled to himself, then looked back at the sign on the gate. "So you think this Kripke creature thing is hiding in here somewhere?"

"Could be," Sam shrugged, snapping the book shut. "It's not the first time a creature has passed itself off as a human to just fade into the background."

"So he could look like anyone else in there," Dean mused. "How are we gonna find him?"

"Well… I, ah…" Sam havered, then just let his mouth flounder. Dean raised his Sarcastic Eyebrows at him.

"Wow, that's a plan," he nodded decisively. "We'll do that then."

"Well _you_ think of something," Sam shot back. "Go on, tell me: how do we find a disguised key to a ruined tomb out in the middle of B.C.?"

"We could--," Dean began, waving a hand in circles. Sam tilted his head, watching. Dean's eyes slid to one side to take stock of his younger brother's expression. "Or we could just…" He waved his hand round in a circle again, more slowly and this time managing to look completely innocent. "Ah…"

"'Ah' what?" Sam pressed, his face a study in criticism.

Dean opened his mouth defiantly, pinning his brother with a superior frown. "We could…"

Sam raised his eyebrows and his chin, prepared to be impressed, his head still moving upwards as Dean opened his mouth again.

"Nah, I got nothing," Dean admitted abruptly, and Sam nodded.

"Thought so."

"Bite me. Are you sure we need this key?" Dean grumbled. "Is it really going to save me?"

"Even if it doesn't, it could still kill Lilith," Sam said firmly, making Dean nod.

"That works for me."

He twitched the engine into life again and backed the car up, pushing her into Drive before aiming for the gates.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

"What are you doing? How are we going to just drive in there?" Sam hissed.

"Relax, Sammy. I know exactly how to get us in," Dean grinned. "Remember back in LA? I was one helluva PA."

Sam huffed worriedly, sitting back in the seat as the Impala came to a rest by the gatehouse. Dean rolled his window down as the guard walked around, peering in.

"Hi there," he began with a large friendly smile.

"Oh, hey boys," the man grinned. "Took her out for a spin, did you?"

"Er - yeah yeah, that's exactly what we did," Dean nodded with smooth confidence. "Can we get back in?"

"Of course. 'Be my pleasure," the man nodded, tipping two fingers to his forehead as he stepped back and pressed the gate button.

Dean shot Sam a confused glance before they drove in beyond the gate. They followed the wide driveway for a minute or so, slowly dodging and rounding various racks and haphazardly abandoned vehicles and props. He pulled her over next to what appeared to be a large dumpster full of polystyrene, sliding her into Park.

"Well, this is as far as the old girl goes," he said, reaching into the back seat for the Colt handgun from his duffle. "I don't want to get any more attention than we need to here."

"Good idea," Sam said, frowning in agitation as he reached over for his duffle.

They climbed out of the car, stowing guns securely and pulling shirts straight, locking her up and looking around casually.

"Where do we go from here?" Dean asked. He noticed a sizeable road sign leaning against the end of the dumpster and tilted his head to read it. "_'Leaving Salvation - the heartland of America_'," he read slowly, frowning. "Sure I seen that before somewhere." He flicked his gaze up, thinking furiously as he muttered the name to himself over and over.

Sam was turning round in a slow circle, appraising everything. "I guess we just do what did we did last time, in LA. Get ourselves jobs," he offered. Dean was distracted long enough for the road sign to be lost in the flotsam and jetsam of peripheral junk and he turned to look at his younger brother.

"You reckon this thing is living on a film lot cos it's kinda like making stuff too?" he asked innocently. Sam shrugged at him.

"Could be. Maybe he just likes to make stuff, whether it's new worlds or just props."

"Speaking of which," Dean said, putting his hands in his pockets and looking around, "we should start on the props department."

"Why?" Sam asked, even as they turned and began to walk deeper inside the goings-on.

"Cos if I'd been a key for like thousands of years, and then somehow found maself able to work on a place like this, I think I'd like to be in a room full of inanimate objects, y'know?" he shrugged.

"And you call _me_ a freak," Sam breathed.

"Whut?"

"I said that's pretty weak," he said more loudly, catching his brother up. "But it's a start."

"And even if we don't find him there, we can-- _Dude! Look!_" he gasped. He stopped dead suddenly, his eyes bulging.

"What?" Sam asked quickly, alert.

Dean was pointing. "It's Bruce Campbell!"

"Bruce who?" Sam asked, lost.

"Bruce Campbell!" Dean cried eagerly, still pointing. The man at whom his finger was jabbing stopped suddenly, hearing his name. He smiled, turned, and walked over the twenty feet confidently. "He's coming over," Dean panicked. "He's coming over!"

"Hey there, boys," Bruce said warmly, putting his hand out. "You already done up? I won't keep you from your job," he winked with amusement, shaking Dean's hand with a reassuringly firm grip. "Just heading on over to speak to the boss - might see you on the lot next season after all," he added.

"Ah - yeah - ok - that'd be - ah - great," Dean managed in a small voice.

Sam turned his polite smile on his awestruck brother, highly amused to see his face had gone a slight shade of red and the tips of his ears were positively burning with either adrenaline or embarrassment at his prompt and complete lack of marbles.

Bruce appeared to notice neither the ears nor the bunny-in-the-headlights look he was causing on Dean's face. He simply nodded with a broad smile, letting their hands drop and walking away.

"Ok, that was really weird," Sam stated as they watched him disappear into the crowd of people.

"That was Bruce Campbell," Dean whimpered, apparently unable to find all of his voice.

"He thought we were working here."

"That was Bruce Cam--"

"Dude!" Sam said sharply, turning and slapping at his brother's arm. "Listen to me, this is important!" he ordered.

"That was Bruce--. Whut?"

"Before you wet yourself over meeting some B movie actor, can we--"

"He ain't some B movie actor, numb-nut, he's Ashley J. Williams!" he snapped, and Sam just let his eyebrows raise.

"Ok, Dean?" he asked slowly, with a deliberateness that made his older brother fume at him. "We're not at Disney, ok? This is not a fun trip to meet your heroes, ok? This is forty-eight hours from Hell and damnation, and the one thing that can stop it is the Kripke, ok? Got it?" he said clearly.

"Alright man, I got it," Dean said grumpily. He put his hands back in his pockets and began to walk along. Sam watched him and felt a tiny bubble of anguish burst on the surface of his sense of urgency.

_It's not fair,_ he thought harshly, and not for the first time. _He's got two days left, unless we can stop this. He should have time for all this sight-seeing. Let's face it, a film lot is just about the only thing he really gets excited about these days._

He sighed, stuffed his hands into his own pockets, then followed. They stared around them at all the people hard at work, carrying props, moving banners, arguing, joking, talking.

"There's something relaxing about a movie set," Dean admitted, and Sam let himself release a little tension from his shoulders.

"Yeah. Mainly cos it's not us having to-. Look," he said, stopping and pulling at his brother's arm.

"Whut?"

"Over there," Sam said, confused. "How did the car get there?"

They stared at a sleek black Impala, parked outside a large hangar in front of them. Dean turned and looked back down the drive, then back again.

"It must be another one," Sam shrugged.

"No… it's her," Dean said firmly. "Look at the scratch on the rear near-side wing. And who else has big-ass spotlights attached to the front windscreen frame?" He paused and then Sam heard his sharp intake of breath. "And check out the plates!"

"Ah…"

"No-one else has Kansas plates on the front, man! Cos you don't need 'em! And they're _her_ plates!"

"Point taken," Sam said. They stared.

"There's something really screwy going on here, dude," Dean breathed, walking over to the car cautiously.

Sam kept up, watching the people around them surreptitiously. Dean stopped by the car door, taking his car key and sliding it in. It turned easily and he opened the door, ducking in and looking over the dash.

"Why is no-one worried it looks like we're breaking into someone's car?" Sam asked out loud.

"Ok, this is a whole new level of weirdness," Dean admitted, his hands on the driver's seat and his head poking round the wide length of dials.

"What is it?" Sam demanded.

"This ain't her. For one, this car's done about half the number of miles that she has. But it has a nick in the trim of the dash, just where hers is. But…" He paused as he leaned over to open the glovebox. "Huh. Someone's emptied it out, like it's been valeted. It's got the same circular burn mark in the carpet of the passenger footwell, though."

He backed out of the car, closing and locking it automatically. He paused and looked at his hand, realising what he'd just done.

"It's not her. It just _looks_ like her - like someone's made it up to look like her. But my key fits," he said, holding his hands out in confusion.

"Well maybe… maybe it's just a collector's model, y'know? Maybe they're using it in the film they're making here and they just happen to have a black one too," Sam shrugged uneasily.

The two boys looked at each other.

"Nah," they breathed dismissively.

"Tell you whut though--"

"Dean!" Sam hissed suddenly, gripping his brother's arm with abrupt panic. "_Look!_"

Dean looked from his captured arm to follow his younger brother's gaze.

What he saw was a young man, overly tall with dark brown bangs over both eyes, striding purposefully toward the same hangar by which they were stood. He looked more closely. He felt his jaw come loose as both he and Sam stared openly, watching him arrive at the side of the hanger right in front of them and open the side door.

"Dude… it's _you_," Dean blinked. He looked back at Sam, then over at the exact replica disappearing through a side door. "Well… he looks just like you. Even had your girlie flowery shirt on."

Sam let go of his arm. "How does this car look like yours? How does that guy look exactly like me?" he demanded, worried.

"Let's ask him," Dean nodded with keen decisiveness, turning to go. Sam grabbed his arm again.

"Wait," he barked. "We can't afford to get distracted here. Two days left, remember?"

"Sam! What if he's the Kripke? What if he just happens to look like you but he's actually this thing? What if that's his disguise? There can't be two of you!"

Sam let go of his arm slowly, his eyes wide.

"Then he must have seen me before," he concluded.

"We really need to ask that guy a few questions," Dean nodded, turning away and heading for the same hangar door.

"Dean! Wait!" Sam called hoarsely, trying not to attract the attention of the busy people around them. Dean stopped and turned, lifting his hands in query.

Sam caught him up. "If we go in there now, everyone's going to see two of me at once," he said. "Don't you think that's going to be hard to explain?"

"If he's hiding out here, _he's_ the one who's going to have explain," Dean pointed out. "If we get in there and tell everyone you two are long-lost twins, how's he going to disagree? If he wants to keep his cover, I mean?"

"Good point," Sam nodded. "Let's go then. But please, let's make sure no-one sees us?"

"Of course," Dean smiled with confidence smooth enough to rival _Sunpat_'s finest peanut butter. "We'll be like leaves on the wind, whispers on the air, ninjas in the kitchen," he soothed, spreading his hands. "The only people who are going to know we're even on the lot are you, me, and the Kripke."

"What the hell are you two doing here?" came a voice. They looked round to see a short woman wearing a headset staring at them. "If Eric finds out you're late for make-up again, he's really going to kick my ass into next week." She paused as they simply stood, trying to think of something to say. "Well come on you two, shake a leg! We're not paid by the hour! Or do you want season four cancelled?"

The Winchesters just stood, speechless, and she sighed.

"Men," she grunted, taking Dean's wrist and pulling. Sam followed quickly, hands in his pockets against the damp cool air.

The woman pulled them on to a large trailer, pushing Dean up the steps in front of her. He poked his head in the door, the woman's head following as she squeezed up behind him.

Inside stood a short haired girl, hands on hips. "Oh, there you are. Hey Margie, thanks for finding him for me," said smiled.

Dean was bundled into the trailer, the woman - Margie, apparently - and Sam following hastily.

"Jared, back again? I've just done you," the woman said, flapping a hand at Sam as she grinned. "But you get over here and sit, Jensen. Looks like you need a bit of a shave."

Dean turned and looked at Sam fearfully.

"Dude, they think we're _actors_!" he hissed.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_**I DO NOT DO SEASON FOUR SPOILERS!** I made all this up!_

_Next chapter coming soon...  
_


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

_There are no spoilers for season four in here! I promise! Cos I know nothing anyway!  
_

* * *

**THREE**

"Yeah I know, hard to believe people would actually consider you two miscreants _actors_, right?" the girl giggled. "Come on Jensen, sit." She looked at Sam. "Jared, aren't you supposed to be waiting for your call to set?"

"Oh, er - yeah," Sam managed, looking at Margie. "I guess I am."

"Dumbasses, both of you," she sighed. "Come on Jared, let's go."

Sam looked at Dean quickly, who shrugged and then waved him off. Sam followed Margie out of the trailer and the door shut behind them. Dean turned and looked at the girl.

"So how come you've been to wardrobe before make-up?" she asked innocently.

Dean looked down at his jacket, pulling on it self-consciously. "Oh, er… time windows?" he hazarded, and she nodded.

"Yeah, that sounds about right. Really working us hard to get this end of season three in the can, aren't they?" she said, patting the chair. "Come on then."

"Ok," he managed, trying to sound casual. He pulled off his jacket and dropped it to the counter top that ran down the side of the trailer. He sat in the chair and she swung it round to face the large lighted mirror. His eyes wandered down over the tools laid out on the counter quickly, searching. "So, Carrie," he ventured, hoping the labelled tools were hers, and not borrowed.

"Hmm-mm," she replied, running her hands through his hair at the top, pulling and pushing it around professionally.

"You ah… you know where I can find this 'Kripke'?"

She chuckled, sliding her hands through his hair and making it point up momentarily.

"Oh Jensen, very good," she grinned at him in the mirror. "He'll be in the writers' room probably, writing and re-writing the final few scenes of The End. Don't worry," she said, patting his shoulder, "Helen heard from Angie who heard from Kirsty that you're in the very last scene."

"Great," he offered, trying his best innocent smile.

* * *

"Right. Now Jared, you can get back to your own trailer yourself, right?" Margie said sternly.

"Yes," Sam replied edgily.

"Good. Stay there till you're called on set. Don't make me come find you again, Jared." Her walkie-talkie crackled into life and she tutted. "Go." She turned away, snatching up her radio and talking back into it.

Sam looked around, trying to get his bearings. He thought he recognised a batch of trailers to his left and made his way over, noticing the busy people around him nod and smile at him as if they knew him.

_Ok, this is just too creepy. But while that guy who looks like me is busy in that hangar, I can look through his stuff. If I could find the right trailer. What was that girl calling me?_

He stopped at the end of the row of trailers, looking at them carefully. He walked around the first one and noticed it had a bright red sticker on the door at the top of the metal steps. He read it quickly.

"Jared Pada - Pada - yeah, that one," he said to himself, hoping there would only be one 'Jared' on set.

He climbed the few steps and went in. He looked around slowly, going to the desk under one window and finding a thick wad of typed notes in a brown cover. He ignored the script marked '3x15' and instead went to the computer, reaching out to turn it on. He froze as his gaze spotted the photograph next to the laptop.

Himself, crouching in a park, two dogs nipping and licking at his nose as he grinned in complete happiness. He stared, unable to look away from his own face. He managed to blink and then shook his head, looking around.

"Stay focused," he breathed, going back to the door and jumping down the steps. "Find Dean, then the Kripke, break the deal, get back to reality. Easy."

He looked around, lost, until he spotted a familiar sandy-coloured head as it rounded the corner. He let out an unconscious breath of relief. But just as he was about to call out to his brother, his noticed his black jacket and stylishly ripped jeans were now a long-sleeved beige t-shirt and smart _clean_ jeans. He was also on the phone. And not a trusty LG or Motorola, either.

_That's not his phone - that's an iPhone. Dean wouldn't even know how to work an iPhone!_ his inner geek screamed at him.

'Dean' was heading toward him. Some survival instinct in Sam made him dash backwards. He darted behind the end of a trailer and waited for the man who seemed so much like his brother to pass. He held his breath as he realised he was not moving, but stopping by the steps to the trailer.

"No, I can't, Dad. Next weekend, I promise," he was saying. "Yeah I know, I'm sorry. You know what these shooting schedules are like, right?"

Sam's eyes bulged as his suspicions were confirmed: _So there's one that looks like me, and one that looks like Dean! Or are they the same one? Is this the Kripke's way of keeping hidden? But why mimic me and Dean? How does he even know what we look like?_

"Yeah. I know, I know," the man continued, but then laughed.

_Sure sounds like Dean,_ Sam observed.

"Next Friday, ok? We're wrapping up this bit soon. No, I can't tell you how it ends, Dad, come on," the man went on, a grin in his voice. "I don't even know. Well, alright, mostly I do, but honestly, if I tell you, I'm a dead man. There are CW goons all over the place, what can I say," he added with a chuckle. A pause, and then, "Alrighty, I'll be there. Those annoying siblings going to be there too?" he joked. "Cool. Take care of everyone, hoss. See you soon."

Sam waited, hearing the boots of the man climb the steps and disappear into the trailer. Then he slid round the edge carefully, looked around, and slunk off into the lanes between the trailers. He made sure as few people saw him as possible as he searched for the make-up truck in which he had left his brother.

He found the trailer and flew up the steps, banging on the door and barging in.

"--and I said, '_Your sister? But I've just paid her your rent in kind_'," Dean was saying.

Behind him Carrie was laughing out loud, holding a shaver but not being in any fit state to use it. Sam cleared his throat and they looked over at him.

"Oh hey Sam," Dean said quickly. "I was just--"

"You called him 'Sam'!" Carried laughed, putting down the shaver lest she cause an accident.

"Oh, yeah - er --"

"Force of habit," Sam interrupted. "I need you to - er - we need you on set, like _now_."

"Now? I was just--"

"Now," Sam barked.

"Ok, ok, don't rupture anything," Dean said quickly, his hands up. "Carrie? Sorry sweetheart, seems I'm wanted elsewhere."

"My my, you're very Dean today," she teased. "But you're not done!" she protested. "You can't go on camera like that, I'll get fired!"

Dean's face jerked in personal affront. "I'll manage," he said defensively, and she smiled.

"Yes you will," she sighed, shaking her head, and the two boys beat a very hasty retreat through the trailer door and down the steps.

Sam grabbed his shoulder and pulled him round the rear of the next trailer quickly, ducking back against the side.

"Whut?" Dean asked quickly.

"There's one of me, and there's one of _you_," Sam said quietly.

"Yeah, I know!" he replied urgently. "Carrie thinks I'm some dude called Jensen and everyone's calling you Jared. Weird, huh? I mean, doubles of us? Do you think it's the Kripke doing this?"

"Perhaps there are two Kripkes - or those two could just be shapeshifters," Sam whispered hoarsely. "Or they could both be him - perhaps he uses two disguises."

"No, cos get this - the Kripke? According to Carrie, he's only supposed to be the main man round here, creating everything, producing the entire thing, writing stuff - you name it, he's got a few fingers in it."

"So these two are not him?"

"These two are not him. Unless he has _three_ disguises," Dean said, throwing his hands out in helplessness.

"No, good, right," Sam said quickly. "So we go with this: the Kripke is the producer guy. We can worry about these two shapeshifters later." He paused and Dean waited. And waited.

"Whut?"

"Well… do you think he _made_ those two shapeshifters?"

"Maybe. And if he's the major producer everyone says he is, we know where to find him," Dean pointed out.

"Right," Sam frowned. "So… how do we make him break this deal?"

They heard a familiar laugh and Sam's eyes went round and fearful. Dean pushed him back and plastered himself against the side of the truck too, waiting.

The man who looked identical to Sam walked past the end of the gap between trailers, whistling and calling some girl's name. The next instant a beige coloured dog loped around the side of the trailer and stopped stock-still, staring.

The Winchesters stared back.

The dog tilted its head, thought for a moment, then barked. Dean put his hands out hurriedly to somehow placate the dog.

"Sadie! Where you got to now?" came the scarily familiar voice, and the dog began barking again.

Sam took a step forward quickly. Dean grabbed his elbow but he shook him off. He gestured to the dog. "Go!" he commanded. The dog stopped barking and took a worried step back from the two boys stiff with tension. "Go on, go!" He waved his hands at the dog in a shooing manoeuvre and it turned, bounding off and yapping happily.

Dean let his hands drop, blowing out a sigh and shaking his head.

"There y'are! Don't you go running off, it's not always safe," they heard, and both of them felt a shiver go down their respective spines at the likeness to Sam's own voice. "Now let's go find Harley, huh?"

Sam and Dean stood and waited until they could no longer hear the happy yips and barks from the dog, and then they started to relax.

"Screw this, Sam. We can't have some shapeshifter running around looking like you when we got work to do," Dean growled.

"Don't forget there's also one that looks like _you_," Sam protested.

"And that's just not right," Dean shivered. "Man, I hate it when people steal my face."

"So now what?"

"So now we find out if there actually _are_ two shapeshifters or if it's just one Kripke in disguise. If they're not and he's the producer guy full-time… well I got him there too."

"Do I dare ask how?" Sam asked with a small smile.

"Ho-_ho_, I got it _aaaaall_ figured out," Dean grinned slyly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "What's the most important thing on a film set - after coffee?"

"Ahhh… the director?"

"Nope. Actors. Specifically, headlining '_I got ma name above the title on the DVD box_' actors," he grinned.

"What DVD? How do you know they're that popular?"

"Cos they got big-ass fancy trailers," Dean nodded wisely. Sam raised his eyebrows. "Alright, Carrie said so," he admitted. Sam rolled his eyes. "Anyway, these two that look like us? This set ain't doing any work without them, whether they're one or two Kripkes or shapeshifters or whatever. I say we grab 'em and stow 'em, then go for a quiet word with this Kripke creator thing. Is that a plan or is that a plan?"

"It's a plan," Sam allowed nervously. "But… he's a key that creates things out of thin air, Dean. Why would he care if we had his two leads - assuming they're shapeshifters and he could just make more at any time?"

"Because, Sammy, he's obviously in hiding," Dean said patiently, in a tone of voice Sam had only heard him use when explaining complicated film plots. "Maybe he's _persona non grata_ in Freak-ville, or he's just holing up here for something to do. Either way, he's been doing his best to fit in round here for a while. So is he gonna let us just walk out of his office with our shapeshifter doubles and announce to the entire lot that he's a fake? Best case scenario, he'll get kicked off this little project he's been careful to stick with, whatever it is. Worst case scenario, he's gonna have to wipe all of this and start again. He ain't going to like them apples, is he?"

Sam stared at him. "What did you eat for breakfast?" he marvelled. "Or are you always this devious after you meet B movie horror film heroes?"

Dean grinned, slapping the back of his hand into Sam's chest. "Come on man, it's an awesome plan, huh? And if he doesn't go for it, we kill him - or melt him down, or do whatever you do to naughty keys. Job done."

"Let's just find them and this Kripke then," he sighed. "You're enjoying all this waaaaay too much."

* * *

Sam crept around the side of the trailer, hearing the door bang shut. He waited for a few moments, looked around to make sure no-one was watching, then made sure the red label still read '_Jared Padalecki_' before he ran up the steps. He wrenched open the door and slammed it shut behind him.

He leaned back on it, staring at his look-alike.

He was standing by the window, just finishing off a conversation via the phone in his hand. He put it down and looked at Sam, astonished.

"Woah," he managed. "You a new camera double?"

"Something like that," Sam blurted. "Look, we really, _really_ need your help with something."

"What?" the man asked, coming over to inspect him at close range. "Woah, man, you look _exactly_ like me!" he chuckled.

"Yeah, great, fine, ah, ah, Jared," Sam gabbled, straightening up off the door. "I need you to just come and look at something for me. It won't take long."

"Ok. What is it, set stuff?" Jared asked, turning and looking for his keys.

"Yeah, just set stuff. For the… for the last few scenes. You know, cos… no-one else is allowed to know what happens," he guessed at speed.

"Oh, I get it," Jared grinned. "Has Jensen seen it yet?"

"No," Sam replied with an anguished attempt at an uncomfortable smile, "but he's about to."

"Cool," said Jared. "Let's go then."

* * *

Dean stole up the steps to the trailer, opening it a sliver and looking through the gap best he could. He caught sight of someone moving around, catching the sounds of talking and the slight drift of music.

He waited until the voice had drifted further way, then opened the door properly and sneaked in. He looked around, surprised at all the things in such a small place. He heard the voice coming back and looked up at the thin door to what must have been another small room.

He looked around quickly and leapt for another door. He whipped it open to find it was a closet.

"You gotta be kidding me," he breathed, before realising he had no choice. He pushed himself in and brought the door to before the voice suddenly got much louder.

"Cos you suck, Jared," the voice said, accompanied by laughter, and Dean's eyes widened.

_He sounds just like me!_ he realised. _They gotta be 'shifters. Why would he make 'shifters that look like us? How does he know us anyway?_

"Naw, I'm done for the day, apparently Eric's re-writing something. He's never happy, is he? Whatever man, so long as my contract's still good for next season, know what I mean?" The voice paused for a long moment. "Aaaah, so _that's_ what he meant by turning it up a notch. I get it." Another long pause. "You think so? Wow. I'm going to have to do some work on season four then, right? Can't just turn up and look pretty any more, I guess," he quipped. A long pause. "Yeah, I know. So listen, you want me to drop by your trailer and feed Sadie and Harley before I head on out to town? Ok, no sweat. What is it, the stuff in the fridge? Is it labelled? Ok, no trouble. Speak to you later."

The voice stopped abruptly and Dean heard boots getting louder. Suddenly the closet door right in front of his face opened.

Dean found himself staring back at… himself. A cleaner, less scruffy, more serious himself. But himself, nonetheless.

Two sets of eyes stared in amazement for a long moment.

"Well aren't you a hell of a camera stand-in?" the look-alike managed. Then his face twisted into confusion. "What are you doing in my closet?"

"I'm real sorry, man," Dean blurted. He forced himself to stop being distracted by his own face looking back at him. "But there's just no other way."

He swung a reluctant fist. It connected with the actor's head, sending him tumbling to the boards.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes:**

_Again, none of this is real! I made it all up! There are no season four spoilers in this whatsoever! (Unless I really am an Oracle who can unwittingly see the unwritten future. In which case: yes, no, yes, yes, some time Thursday, and 3-0 to United.)_

* * *

**FOUR**

He sat at the laptop, typing away with enthusiasm. Then he paused, sat back, and scratched his head.

"I just don't know," he breathed to himself. "This is going to be one sticky season finale."

There was a knock on the main door, to the right of his desk.

"Who's in the outside room?" he called out, getting up. "That writers' room is supposed to be locked when I'm in here. How many times?"

He walked over and put his hand on the doorknob.

The door suddenly exploded inwards on its hinges, knocking him over onto his back. He had a moment to wonder if he were on the floor or the floor were on the wall. Then something grabbed his shirt at the front.

"Come on, on your feet," someone growled, but the voice sounded very familiar. His shocked, blurry vision settled and cleared, and he looked at his attacker.

"Jensen! Woah, man, you scared the shit out of me!" he grinned, putting his hand up to Dean's arm. "What's with the--"

"Shut up," Dean snapped, and then appeared to be looking the smaller man over. He looked round behind him for a second, confused at the empty room beyond. "_This_ is the Kripke?" he called over his shoulder, looking the smaller man over again dubiously.

"Apparently," came another voice, from someone out of sight behind Dean.

"You _are_ the Kripke, aren't you?" Dean asked the bemused writer.

"Most people just call me Eric," he chuckled. "So what's up with you?"

Dean thought for a moment, then just shook his head and dragged him back to his chair. He pushed him to sit and then put a hand behind him, pulling his nickel plated Colt from the back of his jeans.

"You and me are going to talk about favours."

"What the hell?" Eric Kripke managed, shocked. His eyes slid to the side and found the other man behind Dean.

"Just hear us out," the taller accomplice said, and Eric smiled slowly.

"Jared! I get it - is this another of your pranks?" he grinned, relieved. "Fine, you got me, I'm laughing. Can I get back to work now? I just need a few more hours to--"

"Look, believe it or not, we didn't come here to hurt you," Sam said, waving hands at him. "Just listen to what we have to say, that's all. Then--"

"Then if he doesn't want to help us, it'll be all he wrote," Dean interrupted, directed at Sam. But then his head swung round and he fixed the writer with a very obviously threatening stare.

"Look, boys, if this is about season four, don't worry about it," he said soothingly. "Bobby's going to get more screen time, and both of you will get some female distractions at some point in the show. Ok?"

"What's he talking about?" Dean breathed from the corner of his mouth, his eyes not leaving Eric's face.

"Don't know," Sam admitted.

"_And_, to please the fanbase, we've even got an episode where you two get stuck in each other's bodies. Trust me, the ratings will go _through the roof_, and we can afford season five!" the man grinned. "I have an evil masterplan, and I am _not_ going to let us get cancelled."

"You're planning to switch us?" Dean asked, lost.

"Just for one episode. Or maybe a two-parter… Don't know yet. But trust me, the fans are gonna go _nuts_. You remember what they were like in Chicago and LA - they--"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

"Look, we're not here to talk about fans or bases or whatever the hell you're barking on about," Dean said harshly, pushing the gun back into his jeans safely. "We're here cos you're going to break a deal for us."

"The deal?" Eric prompted, confused.

"Yes, a deal," Sam said quickly, walking over. "My brother's got a Crossroads deal with a demon - he's got two days left on it. We know you can break it--"

"The deal? You're upset about the deal?" he cried. "But we talked about this! It's pivotal! We have to have season three end like this or how do we--"

"He can't help us, dude. We waste him for the time-wasting freak scumbag he is," Dean growled, grabbing his shirt with both hands.

"What are you doing? Are you off your meds?" Eric cried, suddenly genuinely scared. "What the hell's gotten into you two!"

"Oh I don't know, maybe only having forty-eight hours to live while some second-rate on-his-ass creator refuses to lend a hand!" Dean shouted back into his face. "I'm tired of this deal round ma neck, and I'm tired of everyone dying every time I look the wrong way!"

"Look boys, I'm real sorry about your dad - but I had no choice! He was down for other projects and the windows were all wrong, and budget was already making us cut--"

"You caused Dad to die?" Sam said unexpectedly, drawing a handgun and advancing on them.

"Wait! Look, I didn't have any choice! And Henrickson - I swear, if Charles hadn't got four films on the go and we had the budget, I would have kept him for a-whole-nother season! I _liked_ Henrickson! I was gonna turn him into a Hunter, a semi-regular cast member! But it was budget!"

"Who's Budget?" Dean interrupted, calming slightly to release the writer. Eric slumped back into the wooden chair, staring with fear. "You keep saying Budget made you do it. Maybe we should find this Budget and tear him a new one for all this trouble he's caused."

Eric simply gazed at him, open-mouthed, for a long moment. "Well, it did kinda make me cut a lot of music from the show," he managed, very quietly.

"Music? What music?" Dean demanded.

"Well… I couldn't afford Led Zeppelin cos they were asking--"

"Right, we find this Budget dude and waste _him_, too," Dean nodded decisively.

"Jensen! Jared! Listen to me - I know we've been filming all hours and--"

"Woah woah woah," Dean said irritably, waving both hands at the gibbering man. "First off, can we get the names right?"

"And--. What?"

"Ma name ain't Jensen, man. It's Dean. That's Sam," he said, chucking a thumb at 'Jared'. "And you better be the Kripke, or there's gonna be--"

"Dean?" Eric said weakly. "Dean? As in… Dean? And Sam?"

"That's what I said," Dean sighed. "Not the sharpest tool in the drawer, is he?" he asked Sam loudly.

"He better be a lot sharper than this or he's going to find out what happens to _supervacuus ferrum_," Sam observed coldly.

"Boys! Boys! Listen," Eric said quickly. "Look - I need to get my head round this, ok?" He took a deep breath, putting his hands out and letting it out again slowly. "Right. You two tell me you're not actually Jared and Jensen, but Sam and Dean? Do you have _any idea_ how crazy that sounds?"

"Actually? No," Dean said pointedly.

Eric just looked up at him weakly. "So… you think you're really Sam and Dean?" he ventured. _My ass! Crazy fans is more like it!_ his mind screamed.

"If you ask me that _one_ more time--" Dean began.

"Dean - he's just not getting this. Let's just show him," Sam said quickly. Dean looked over and then gestured to Sam.

"Fair enough, let's get everyone in here together where we can keep an eye on 'em," he instructed. Sam went to the door and opened it. Dean looked down at Eric, watching him idly, as Sam frog-marched two people into the room.

The two newcomers just stumbled and stared, unable to take it in.

"Ho… ly… shit," Eric whispered, staring. "Jensen? Jared?"

The two men, arms behind their backs, wrists bound with plastic tags and mouths gagged, simply gawked at the two men who looked exactly like them. Sam shut the door to the inner room quietly, looking at the two actors.

"Please, sit down," he said nervously.

The two men exchanged a glance in a way that sent a cold chill up Sam's spine in all its frightening familiarity. Then the taller one walked to the leather sofa and sat slowly, getting comfortable. He looked at the shorter, blonder one meaningfully. He turned and found a chair further from the door, sitting slowly.

Eric closed his mouth and then wiped his hands over his face.

"So… who the hell _are_ you two? Cos I kinda thought you were my two lead actors - those two over there," he said weakly.

"Dude! Seriously! If you ask me again I'm gonna--" Dean began.

"Look, can you break this deal or not?" Sam interrupted.

"Break the deal?" Eric breathed, surprised.

"We know you can create anything out of nothing - look at these two," Dean snapped, waving a hand at the two actors irritably. "So you've gotta know some way to break it."

The seated writer looked back at Dean for a long moment, then at Sam. He turned in his chair and looked over at his two actors. They appeared to be staring at the two men on their feet, and he didn't blame them. He turned back to catch Dean glaring at him with emeralds that could smash a window.

"I can't," he said simply, letting his head hang and his shoulders sag. There was no bravado on his face, no energy in his response. "I just can't do it. I will _not_ cut or change any more story-lines. Not for anyone," he muttered. He looked at the carpet. "So do whatever it is you're planning to do, cos… I can't."

Jared mumbled something from the sofa, and they turned to look at him. He mumbled again, unable to make himself understood, then gave up and simply nodded instead. He looked over at Jensen, on the chair twenty feet away across the room. Jared mumbled a noise, raising his eyebrows at him.

Jensen regarded them all with a look in his eyes that even Dean couldn't read. He looked at Eric, then at Jared, then back at the writer. He nodded decisively.

Dean sighed and turned to Eric.

"That's commendable, man," he said with a small, reluctant smile. "You know, you seem like a nice guy. If this was any other day of the week, I'd be on your side. But not today, and not tomorrow. Cos I only _got_ today and tomorrow."

He walked closer, putting his hands on the arms of the writer's chair and leaning down. The smaller man leaned back fearfully as Dean pushed his face closer to his.

"And then poor Sammy over there has to watch me die. Now, I ain't too keen on dying, that's a natch, but seriously? Having him watch? That's just a step too far, know what I mean? So if I can somehow stop him from seeing it - hopefully, by making sure I don't get collected day after tomorrow at all - then I will be the most grateful guy in the world," he breathed. His gravelly voice was harsh and abrasive, but compared to his eyes it was gentle as silk on the writer's jittery nerves. Dean shoved himself back from the the man's chair with an angry huff.

"I can't!" Eric cried desperately. "And I won't! I've had it up to here with people telling me what I can and can't broadcast, and then people screwing with my actors and writers' contracts, forcing them to strike! It's not right! We do a job like anyone else! Why do we get screwed over cos some studio exec. doesn't want to pay us a fair share? Why should it always be a sacrifice, this job? Why should I always have to choose between an SFX shot or a song that gets cut? Why can't people--"

"Woah woah woah!" Dean interrupted, glaring at him with outrage. "Stow it, Emo Boy, you're as bad as him!" he cried, chucking a thumb at Sam. There was a muffled repetitive sound and everyone turned to look at Jensen.

"Are you _laughing_?" Sam asked, indignant.

Jensen coughed slightly, the gag in his mouth ceasing its up and down momentum. He cleared his throat and looked at Sam quickly. He shook his head innocently. There was another muffled sound, this time an interrogative bark, and the room looked at Jared. He was glaring at Jensen, his eyebrows frowning for him as he mumbled something past his gag. He sounded rather put out. Jensen looked surprised, then started mumbling back at Jared.

Eric, Sam and Dean watched, dumb-founded, as Jared and Jensen apparently argued and/or discussed something that appeared very pressing. The mere fact that they had gags in their mouths did absolutely nothing to impair their comprehension or ability to contradict each other.

Sam cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said loudly.

Jared and Jensen stopped short, looking up as if only just remembering he were in the room.

"Thank you," Sam said, sarcasm killing their indignation admirably. He turned back to look at Dean, and the man in the chair. "So anyway?" he said pointedly.

"Alright, look. I'm just Eric, not some magic creator thing," he said slowly. "They don't exist, Jar- ah, whoever you two are," he managed, noticing Dean's jaw about to stick out. "I'm just a writer, man. I just write. Well, I've done a bit of co-executive producing for other shows too, and I did a little--"

Sam was aware of a discreet shuffling noise and turned to look at Jared. He simply froze and looked back at them all innocently.

Sam and was not fooled. "Don't you dare try and shuck your hands free," he said to Jared irritably, walking over. Dean, happy that Sam was on the case, looked back at Eric in the chair.

"So look, how--"

There was a _whoomf_ and a crash. Dean turned quickly. He spotted Sam on the floor and drew the gun from the back of his jeans.

Something grabbed his neck from behind and dragged. The gun was wrenched from his hand. He found a limb unexpectedly in his grasp and yanked. He flew round and punched something soundly in a soft place. There was a noise to his left and he was blind-sided. He appreciated it was a good shot as he felt the floor collide with his head.

"Son of a bitch," he grumbled, lifting his head and shaking it quickly. He got his hands under him and began to think about getting to his hands and knees.

But he paused as he saw two large black boots right by his head.

"Stay," commanded an all-too-familiar voice.

He twisted his neck and looked up. He found his exact replica watching him like a hawk, his own nickel plated Colt 1911 handgun pointing in the rough location of his head.

"Now then," Jensen said shakily, taking a careful step back from Dean on the carpet, "all you have to do is stay there while we call the cops. And when I say stay, I mean _stay_," he ground out fearfully.

Dean let his eyes roll like it was all cosmically unjust, blew out a sigh, and let his head fall back to the carpet.

"Jeez, this is like an episode of '_Lost'_," he cursed.

* * *

_**More coming soon...**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note:**_

_Guess what - still **no** season four spoilers here!_

* * *

**FIVE**

"Alright," Jared said confidently, yanking the rest of the plastic wrap from his left hand and getting to his feet.

"Sam!" Dean called from his place on the carpet, worried. "Sam, answer me!" He paused but there was no response. "If you've hurt my brother I'll kill you!" he shouted, enraged. Jensen took another cautious step back from him.

"No no - he's alright," Jared said hastily, crouching down to Sam and rolling him onto his back. "I only got him with a vase." He pushed at Sam's shoulder. "Hey, dude? Come on, get up."

Sam moaned and felt his head before opening his eyes. He looked up, found Jared staring back at him, and groaned, closing his eyes again.

"This is not happening," he moaned.

"Can I get up now?" Dean growled from the other side of the room. "I can think of better ways to get carpet burns, know what I mean?"

"Get up," Jensen said cautiously, stepping back and watching the man who looked exactly like him climb to his feet. He looked at Jared before the writer. "Eric? You got your phone?"

"Yeah," he replied weakly, then hopped to his feet and pulled the phone out.

"No! Wait!" Sam cried suddenly, getting to his hands and knees. "Just - wait - don't call the police just yet, please!"

"They're dangerous," Jared said pointedly.

"We're _desperate_," Sam shot back. He got to his feet slowly, backing away from Jared with his hands up innocently. "Look, just let me say something, ok?"

"Aw hell no, Sam," Dean moaned, his shoulders sagging.

"Shut up, Dean!" he shouted angrily. "This is it, alright? _It!_ So shut up!"

Jared and Jensen exchanged a glance, then looked at Eric. He lifted the phone to show it was on.

"Seriously, I just want to explain. He's got the gun and there's three of you and two of us. Right?" Sam pressed.

"Alright," Eric sighed, Jensen and Jared both looking at him in disapproval. "I'm a sucker for brotherly shenanigans and a good story, and I am really, _really_ interested in just who the hell you are. What do you want to say?"

"Right, listen," Sam said nervously, his hands still out in surrender. "If you make that call, if you call the police on us, you're killing my brother."

"_Sam_," Dean hissed angrily.

"_Dean! Shut up!_" he raged, making them all jump. He looked back at Eric, trying to calm his twanging nerves. "Honestly. Everything we've told you is true. In two days he gets collected by hell hounds, and right now, you're the only thing we've found that could stop it."

He let his hands drop slowly, letting his eyebrows do the Oscar-winning talking. Eric stared at him, and he sensed an opportunity.

"Look, man… He's my brother. I don't have anyone else. I've _never_ really had anyone else. He's always looked out for me, always done whatever it took to look _after_ me, whether I wanted him to or not. And now it's finally gotten him into bigger trouble than he can handle by himself. So I did this - I made us come out here to find you, I made us chase you down cos I thought you could help us - help _him_. You can, man. Just don't call the police - don't get us taken away. It doesn't matter where he is, doesn't matter where the police take him, the hell hounds will come and he will die, and that will be on your hands."

He paused, noticing Jensen's gun hand had dropped slightly. Eric seemed to be clutching the phone a little tightly, his eyes forced open. Jared was sniffing professionally to himself, his face locked as if he daren't move a muscle. Jensen let the gun drop a little further, looking anywhere but Sam's agonised face.

"Look, all you have to do is get Dean out of his deal," he said, advancing on Eric but stopping short of grabbing his arms. His eyebrows went through tortuous pinching and drooping routines as he tried to phrase it all. "Please… I'm begging you! Please! We've come so far, we've done so much - he can't go out like this! Please, please, just do what you need to do, just make the deal go away. Don't be the one who killed my brother. _Please_."

Eric looked away from his anguished face quickly, but Sam ducked and moved to try and regain eye contact. He heard Jensen clear his throat in a very tiny, embarrassed gesture that he'd heard his brother use before, but he didn't care.

"Look, man… If you can't break the deal, if you can't do anything to help him… then make something up. Make something _real_, somewhere he's out of reach of Hell itself. I know you can do it - I know you'd _love_ to do it - so _do it_. Please. Just… _please_," he implored, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please - he's all I've got, he did this for me." His voice turned rough, desperate, tortured. "You have to help him escape this - _please_."

Eric looked up into his red-rimmed eyes and pleading face. He opened his mouth but didn't appear to be able to think of a single thing to say. He tore his gaze from him and looked over at Jared. He rubbed an eye and looked at the carpet self-consciously. Eric turned to look at Jensen, who had let the gun drop to his side limply, shaking his head.

Eric sighed and looked at the phone. Then he lifted a hand to push the heel of his palm into his eye, rubbing and huffing to himself for a long moment. He turned slowly, putting the phone on the desk behind him.

"What do you think?" Eric asked Jared slowly. He opened his mouth, thought about it, then closed it again. He shrugged. Eric looked at Jensen. "Well?"

"I think whoever this guy is, you should give him a job," he allowed gruffly, still looking at the carpet. "Another minute of this and I'll be calling Yellow Pages to find someone to help him myself."

Eric shook his head in despair and looked up at Sam again.

"You are… very persuasive," he admitted quietly. "I almost wish I really _was_ able to help you and… whatever problem you actually have. But I'm just a writer. You have to understand - I'm really just a writer. Well, a series creator, too. And producer. And all that other stuff - but really, I am not some magic demi-god." He paused, looking apologetic. "If I was, I certainly wouldn't have let you hold me at gun-point, would I?"

It was silent for a long moment. Sam stared, his eyes unable to look away from the man he believed could have saved his brother. The man now denying he was anything but an underpaid series creator.

_How could I have been wrong? This is all wrong! This isn't how it's supposed to happen! He's supposed to confess and help us!_ Sam wailed on the inside. _What have I done?_

"Then… these two are just 'shifters," Dean muttered. Everyone looked at him. He was watching the carpet, rubbing his forehead as if a migraine the size of Texas had suddenly loomed in on him.

"What?" Jared asked slowly.

Dean looked up at Sam. He judged from the shock on his brother's face and the way he was still staring lamely at Eric that it had in fact been Jared who had spoken. He blinked and looked at him instead.

"Shapeshifters," he said. "Kinda like doppelgängers to you civvies. If he ain't the Kripke creator and he didn't make you for whatever reason, then you two gotta be shapeshifters."

"Shapeshifters aren't _real_," Jensen stressed suddenly, looking at Sam and Dean. "You must be some kind of screwed up obsessive stalker-fan if you believe everything we spout from a script is _real_!" He snorted in amusement, apparently to himself. "But then…" He looked up slowly, regarding Dean with cautious curiosity. "But then how come you two look exactly like us?"

"I think it's you two that look like us, not the other way round," Sam put in slowly, but he seemed to be past caring. Dean cast him a look, noticing his younger brother's eyes drop from Eric at last and hit the carpet with twelve months of heartbreak and failure battling for soul domination.

"Really?" Jensen challenged, dragging Dean's attention back to him. "Well I know I'm real, and I know Eric and Jared are real. I can't work out how you two look like us, talk like us and damn-near do everything else like us too," he said. "If you weren't so similar, I'd say you were just psycho fans. I mean, I've heard some weird shit about crazy stalker-fans in my time, but--"

"Like the underwear," Eric interrupted.

"Oh yeah," Jensen said, rolling his eyes. Jared blinked, confused.

"What underwear?" he asked suspiciously. Jensen looked at him.

"Girls keep sending me underwear, man. It's obscene," he said, shivering slightly.

"Cool," Dean interjected, suddenly grinning childishly, and Jensen looked at him.

"They're like fifteen," he said clearly. Dean's face fell.

"So not cool," he grumped with distaste.

"That's what _I_ said," Jensen nodded, then caught himself doing it and stopped.

"Look, we have a major problem," Jared said quickly, lest the look-alikes get side-tracked again. "We don't understand how _you're_ real, cos we know you're just a couple of weirdo fans who like the show just a little too much. And you can't believe _we're_ real - I'm not even going to try and explain that one. You say you're not going to let us leave till Eric gets one of you out of a Crossroads deal - which again, we know to be part of some TV show, not real life. So what do we do now?"

The five men looked at each other for a minute's silence.

"Y'know, if this weren't about saving my own ass, I'd be laughing right now," Dean sighed, throwing his hands out in obvious despair. "It's kinda funny really, when you think about it."

Sam looked at him sharply, then back at Eric, his mouth falling open in abrupt inspiration.

"It's almost like a good old-fashioned cliffhanger from some prime-time drama show," Dean went on with a frivolous shrug, Sam's face going unnoticed. "So what shall we do folks, cut to a commercial? Or just shoot the Kripke here anyway and find out who disappears as the fakes they are? Cos I've gotta say, whether I fade out of existence or get carved up by hell hounds, it's all rock and roll to me."

Sam lifted his chin with a confident bounce, his eyes singling out Eric Kripke.

The writer was quick to notice. "What?"

"It _is_ you, isn't it?" Sam said slowly.

"Me what?"

"You've made all this. Dean - you said it yourself - he works on a film lot cos it's still creating stuff. Next to real life, it must be the next best thing, right?" he demanded, a warm tide of red creeping up his face.

"Yeah, so?" Dean asked, eyeing the surge of adrenaline in his brother and starting to worry.

"So that's exactly what he's done. He's made this film set like his own little version of a world. None of this is real, right?" he prompted hotly, turning on Eric. "This is just another Mystery Spot, another little diversion cos you're bored - or no, you wanted to find some other way to waste our time and piss us off before Dean goes down. _Right?_" he snapped with anger.

Eric put his hands up quickly, frightened. "No! I don't know what you're talking about!" he protested, taking a step back. "I never met you before this afternoon, what are you talking about?"

But Sam didn't move except to fold his arms resolutely.

"We've made you, man. Stop pretending." His jaw jutted out dangerously. "You're a_ Trickster._"

Dean's gaze turned on the small writer with venom.

"I don't pretend to follow his logic - mostly I just nod when Sasquatch here pauses for breath - but he's normally right," he ground out, even as he walked back to the chair by the door. Sam's gaze did not follow his brother, but stayed firmly on Eric.

Jared and Jensen turned and watched, mouths slightly open, as Dean snatched up the chair. He turned it to a forty-five degree angle and lifted a boot, smashing it down against the leg with what appeared to be all his angry strength.

The leg splintered and bounced on the floor. Dean dropped the chair with deliberate flair and reached down. He picked up the liberated leg and lifted it to his face, inspecting the long, sharp ending.

"That'll do it," he breathed to himself. He let the homemade stake drop to his side, hefting it securely in his palm as he walked back over and glared at Eric.

"You gonna re-think this helping thing?" he asked meaningfully. "You son of a bitch. You lowlife, pain in the ass, time-wastin' goddamn _annoying_ Trickster - you been laughing at us from the get-go, right?" he growled. "I should just stake you right now as payback for the last two visits you paid _us_."

He reached out and grabbed his shirt with his free left hand. He yanked him closer.

"No! I'm just a writer!" Eric squealed.

"Let him go!" Jensen shouted suddenly, the gun in his hand up again.

"You really gonna shoot me?" Dean challenged. "Fine. I'm dying soon anyhow. Better you than a hell hound!"

He brought the stake up to Eric's throat.

"I said let him go!" Jensen shouted, panicked.

"Don't shoot!" Sam called.

"Then let him go!" Jared interrupted.

"Dean! Please! Dean! Don't kill me, I'm just Eric!" he wailed, feeling the stake pierce the skin at his throat slightly. "I swear to God! Please, Dean! Please! Killing me won't break a contract with Lilith!"

"What have I got to lose!" Dean shot back, pressing harder with the wood.

"Tricksters don't count to demons!"

"Ask me if I give a shit," Dean snarled, pushing.

"_Lilith would thank you anyway cos she hates me!_"

Dean's hand on his shirt released slightly. The stake moved back from his skin and Eric opened his eyes in a flash. He stared at the man with the wooden weapon.

"And I thought Tricksters were above mere demons," the elder Winchester said with deliberate clarity.

Eric's gibbering face fell from one of abject fear into a relaxed smile.

"_Damn_, you two are good!" he grinned. He watched Dean let him go, standing back one. "Caught me out there, didn't you?"

Jensen took a step forward to look at Eric. "What? You're not going to let these whack-jobs off, are you? Can we just call the police now?"

Eric turned and looked at him slowly. "Oh Jensen. And you, Jared," he said, turning and finding the taller man watching him with confusion. "I have really, _really_ enjoyed working with you. It's been so much fun, it really has. You know, getting pranked by you two was so funny, cos you had no idea what you were doing, or to whom. It's so rare that the prankster gets pranked. I really enjoyed it."

"Eric?" Jared asked quietly.

Eric sighed wearily. "I'm sorry to have to do this, boys," he said, putting a hand to Jensen's shoulder, patting as he sent a very apologetic look at Jared. "But…" He let his hands drop, turning to Sam and Dean. "Congratulations, Sam," he said with a wide smile, "you worked it out. I should have known that all your researching and dogged belief in lore and ancient books would eventually lead you to me."

"Eric?" Jared tried again, unsure. Eric Kripke turned to look at him.

"Not really," he shrugged, embarrassed. "Actually? It's Edshu."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:**

_Again, no spoilers! _

_I refuse to find out anything to do with season four myself until 19th September (18th in your time zone, probably)!_

* * *

**SIX**

Dean snapped his fingers loudly. "Ha-_haa_! I _knew_ it!" he crowed, pointing at Eric. "Nice one, Sam," he added, reaching out and slapping his brother's arm.

"I'm sorry, what did I miss?" Jared asked, confused.

"Hey dude, sorry," Dean said abruptly to Jensen.

"Why?"

"Cos you got the thick brother. I got the _smart_ one," he grinned maliciously, his shoulders straightening unconsciously.

"Yeah, he's my brother, cos we look so much alike," Jensen ground out deliberately, and Dean suddenly recognised it as brittle-dry sarcasm.

"Ooh, watch it there, dude, you could start a brush-fire with that kinda wit," he observed.

"Then it's a good job _he_ got the thick one," Jensen said clearly, pointing at Sam, "and Jared got the smart one, or you'd cut yourself."

"Cut maself?"

'_Sharp wit_' Sam mouthed at him and Dean 'oh'ed, amused. Then his face dropped and he looked at Jensen with annoyance.

"Anyway!" Edshu said loudly, throwing his hands up in the air. "Can we get back to me now? The reason we're all here this afternoon?"

"Oh yeah," Dean said, lifting the tip of the makeshift stake pointedly. "I'm ready. Go ahead," he said cheerfully.

"You're not going to need that," Edshu said smugly, letting his hands steal into his pockets.

"Meaning?" Sam asked.

"Meaning he's not a Trickster, he's just playing along with you guys," Jared snapped. "Honestly! As if Tricksters are even real!"

"Jared, please," Edshu sighed, putting up a hand. "In fact, no, I have a better idea. It's much too crowded in here, and the adults have to talk in private."

He lifted a hand and Sam took a quick gasp of air to call out.

But it was too late; Edshu snapped his fingers.

Sam squeezed his eyes closed, holding his breath, afraid to open them again. Time seemed to stop; he wondered if it had really stopped.

For him.

All was silent apart from a tiny muffled thump from somewhere in front of him.

_I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to be back in that motel room with four days to go, about to go searching some library. I don't want to have four days left to stop Dean dying. I can't do this again - I can't._

"Hey, man - you alright?"

He heard Dean's voice and felt his hand on his arm, and he knew he was beaten.

But when he opened his eyes, he was still in the writers' room. Dean was watching him, confused. Edshu was standing, hands in his pockets, smiling as he rocked on his heels.

And Jared and Jensen were gone.

Sam looked around quickly, then down at the carpet. Dean's gun appeared to have fallen from Jensen's non-existent hand and found itself a new home.

"Why are we still here?" he demanded.

"Had to clear the toys away, let the adults speak in private," Edshu smiled.

"Where did they go?" Sam continued fearfully.

"Home."

Dean spotted his gun. "There you are," he breathed to himself, walking round Sam to retrieve it quickly. "So are you going to explain what's going on here and why we shouldn't just stake you now?" he called over his shoulder.

"Yeah, suppose I should," Edshu sighed sadly, his shoulders rounding as he walked back to the desk slowly. He sat in the chair, waving a hand at the sofa. "You boys want to sit? This might take a few minutes, and I don't know about you, but I've had a long day."

He snapped his fingers loudly and three bottles of beer appeared on the desk, along with a huge plate of miniature Philly cheese-steak sandwiches.

"Sandwich?" he asked Dean innocently.

"Aw, man," Dean grinned eagerly, reaching out for one. Sam slapped his hand away and he stopped short, eyeing his younger brother. "Dude?"

"You're eating food laid on by a Trickster," Sam said flatly. Dean nodded.

"Of course I am! Either he's gonna get me off this deal, which means he ain't looking to screw me over just yet, or I'm dying in two days anyway. Either way, how do I lose with a Philly cheese-steak sandwich?" he shrugged.

Sam pouted, a cold knot twisting in his chest. "Fine," he managed, and Dean grinned, picking up a small bundle of beef love.

"You know, it's so sad to see you two here like this. How did you find me, anyway?" Edshu asked, a serious frown on his face.

"Ok, first off - Edshu, is it?" Sam asked, sounding slightly indignant to Dean's experienced ear.

"Yes."

"Oh, so are we friends now?" Sam demanded, outraged. "Am I going to tell you my story, then you tell yours, _then_ you do something about Dean's deal?"

"Perhaps," Edshu shrugged.

Dean nudged Sam, annoyed, and mouthed '_hard-ass_' at him. Sam huffed at him admirably and the two Winchesters fixed each other with stares that would have left dents in tungsten carbide.

Sam flicked his eyes from Dean's commanding glare and then let them roll. He then turned to look at the Trickster again.

"Fine, whatever," he fumed. _If it's the only way…_ He paused, apparently calming himself. "I was doing research and I came across this thing about keys to tombs. So I dragged Dean out here to Canada to find you. Turns out it was a _crypt_-key, not a key to a crypt, but who cares?"

"Now there, you see?" he said, pointing at Sam and then Dean, whose cheeks were suddenly rammed full of lettuce, bread and beef, making him look alarmingly like a carnivorous hamster. "I never figured on you leaving the States to find me. I underestimated you, Sam."

"I'll let it go for a small favour," he shot back.

"No wait, I'm curious, man," Dean said, his voice muffled by food. The other two looked at him. "Why hide on a film set? Why hide at all? What's the story?"

Edshu smiled slowly, then looked at Dean with a critical eye. "You really want to know? Like really?" he asked sceptically.

"Well… yeah," Dean shrugged innocently.

"Wow," the Trickster blinked, apparently to himself.

Sam had a brief flash of a question burn through his brain, mostly to do with how long this being had been alone without anyone caring about his existence, and how things might have been different if he'd had someone along for the ride.

Then his mind skipped to the bit about the someone _he'd_ had along for _his_ ride facing imminent departure if they didn't get what they wanted from this being, and let the sympathy slide away, shunned and uncared for.

_Is this how Dean does it? Is this how he's able to kill creatures begging for the benefit of the doubt or innocents possessed? When he's gone, will I be able to do the same?_

"Ok, it's like this," Edshu was saying, and Sam was dragged back to the moment. He watched the Trickster lean forward in the chair and clasp his hands together, his elbows on his knees.

Dean pushed at Sam, stuffing the rest of the sandwich in his mouth before snagging two bottles of beer. He retreated to the sofa, Sam following simply because he was tired of standing taller than everyone else in the room again and it appeared any excitement or hope of help was over.

"I'm pretty old, right?" Edshu was saying cheerfully. "Sam there probably knows exactly _how_ old, but I'll thank him not to reveal the exact figure."

"If you're really Edshu, and not the Trickster we've already met, then Ancient West African lore has you older than their tribes," Sam reported tonelessly, his marked lack of enthusiasm or emotion making his older brother look at him.

Edshu paused, interested, as he watched Dean elbow his younger brother's arm and send him a very clear '_what gives?_' frown. Sam stared at him for a long moment, his mouth a thin line as he obviously fought with himself for control over his tortured eyes.

Dean let his frown slide into something Edshu took to be realisation, and then the elder sibling reached down without looking and picked up a beer bottle. He watched Sam as he opened it smoothly with his ring. He held it out to his younger brother and lifted his eyebrows, offering him a sympathetic attempt at a helpless smile.

Sam swallowed and took the beer gratefully, watching his reason to keep fighting get his own beer and look back at the Trickster. Dean opened the bottle and flicked the cap in the vague direction of the desk.

"I didn't realise my fame had spread this far over," Edshu remarked dryly, still entranced by the silent communication between his uninvited guests.

"Oh yeah," Sam said reluctantly. "Famous for the coloured hat gag, am I right?"

"Yes! You really _do_ read a lot of stuff, you know that?" Edshu laughed.

Dean looked perplexed. "Coloured hat gag?" he prompted.

Sam looked at Edshu, but he waved a hand back at him. Sam rolled his eyes and looked at Dean. "Legend has it Edshu put on a hat that had four colours on it; red, white, green and black. He made sure two friendly farmers saw him, just so that they would be arguing about what colour hat he had on for the rest of the day." He paused, turning to his brother. "And his most famous quote after he'd told everyone it was him?" he asked Dean.

"Uh… I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice-cream?" his brother hazarded.

"'_Spreading strife is my greatest joy_'," Edshu grinned, putting his hands out in surrender. "Wow, those were good times - pranking people, screwing things - you know, the family business. Beautiful, beautiful fun - and with such style, too."

"So what happened? All that beauty and that style went kinda smooth after a while?" Dean quipped.

"You know your Queen - I like you," Edshu remarked dryly. "But actually, yeah, it did. I mean, coloured hats and fancy voices are one thing, but _really_? And then one day my boy comes to me and tells me he's had the greatest time in _your_ neck of the woods. Really boys, he could not speak highly enough of you two. He really enjoyed squaring up against and escaping you two - twice," he winked.

"That's your _son_? The Trickster we met?" Sam asked, surprised.

"Yup, he's one of mine," he admitted. "Like I said, it's a family thing. And he's not a bad kid, I suppose. Needs a little discipline now and then, though."

"I can imagine," Sam breathed. "So what, you decided to whip up this film set?"

"Oh you see, it wasn't the film set I whipped up," Edshu chuckled. "The film set is real, the world around us is real - how else could you two be here? But Jensen asked the question, and no-one yet has really answered it to anyone's satisfaction: Why do you two pairs look alike?"

"Cos _they're_ not real," Dean pointed out.

"That's right, they're not," Edshu allowed, waving a hand in a circle at him.

"You created them, started all this… because it was fun to control them and this film lot?"

"Not at all," he beamed. "I created them, then let their little lives go how they wanted. They have no idea that they only remember things cos I put childhoods into their head."

"Like Sean Young in 'BladeRunner'?" Dean guessed.

"Exactly!" Edshu chuckled. "Except these boys are now approximately three years old, and will live as long as a real person would. And they'll never know they're not real. Well, they are real, I suppose. Just… never had a childhood that _was_ real."

"So what did you do to them?" Sam asked angrily.

"Nothing!" Edshu said quickly. "They're back in their trailers right now, thinking about dogs and food, probably. They won't remember anything that's just happened this afternoon. Believe me, Sam, I do _not_ want to do anything to hurt those two - they are copies of my favourite humans, after all."

"Well that's a switch," Dean observed dryly, taking a long sip of beer.

"Isn't it?" Edshu winked. "Anyway, I needed something to devote all my energy to, all my time and effort. Being a god and only having a few measly parlour-trick pranks to play on people is like being… well, it's like being Sam working behind the counter at Starbuck's. It's not exactly stretching, you see?"

"Great," Dean put in. "So you build this place, and for some reason have doubles of us? Of ma car? Everything?"

"Oh Dean," Edshu grinned. "It's my boy's fault, I'll tell you that right now. Once he'd mentioned you two and how much fun you upright, good people were to play with, I thought I'd go see for myself. I've had fun, watching you two struggle to do the right thing when all around is chaos and confusion," he smiled. "You're really very good at it," he nodded.

"Thanks. That means a lot coming from an ancient Trickster god with too much time on his hands," Sam muttered.

Edshu shrugged. "Hey, credit where credit's due. I wouldn't have made a copies of you two and battled the real world to set up a real production company - without snapping a single pair of fingers - if you two weren't so awesome."

"He thinks we're awesome," Dean grinned, looking at Sam. Sam just frowned at him and Dean made his grin drop. He cleared his throat, looking back at the Trickster. "So you started up this whole gig in the real world, but just copied everything from our lives cos your son thinks we're majorly cool. Great. So this is one giant _SimCity_ game?"

"Exactly! Well, only Jared and Jensen are actually Sims, as you put it. Out here in this real world I'm stretched, challenged, kicked at every turn - and being stretched, _that's_ the key."

Dean snorted with amusement, tipping the bottle up for more beer.

"No really - do you _appreciate_ the pressure creators are under to make quality television?" Edshu went on, suddenly serious. "I mean, managing to get all this together, then finding only some lowly bean-counting network is prepared to show it, and then kicking _my_ show - based on your lives, of course - into a crappy time-slot? Abandoning it when the writer's strike was on by showing some piss-poor show in its place? Slashing my budget left, right and centre and screwing up the advertising widgets on the official channel's site? Honestly. It's enough to make me tear my hair out - who knows how real people live with all this shit," he said accusingly.

"Then retire," Sam said pointedly.

"Ooohh, but I am _loving_ it, I really am," Edshu grinned. "I really did not expect to like working with all these people, but it's been a blast. And the _fans_ - man, I've got to tell you, they're doing more good for the show than our sponsors or network. Talk about excellent viral marketing!"

"Look, Edshu, we're really honoured that you've chosen to copy our lives to make yourself a little game, and it's been great discussing this and kidnapping our own Sim doubles and everything, but… are you ready to break Dean's deal now?" Sam asked politely.

Edshu's face fell slowly, and he looked at Dean.

"I am sorry, man. I am so very, very sorry. But even I can't break it."

"But - your game," Sam spluttered desperately, putting down his beer abruptly. "What happens if you have no real versions of us to copy any more?"

"I'll just have to write my own plots," he smiled. "Won't that be fun?"

"But you said you liked us!" Sam pleaded, jumping to his feet.

"And I do. I _really_ do. But this is beyond me - oh, not breaking the deal," he said quickly, putting his hands up. "That _would_ be easy. But dealing with what comes next? Woah - I am _not_ getting mixed up in that," he said firmly, pinning Dean with a stern look. Which meant he didn't see the tide of anger flooding up Sam's face.

"No! You _help_ us!" Sam ordered.

"Really, don't worry about it Sam, Dean is looking at more trouble for a while to come. You think a little thing like dying's going to get in _his_ way? Look at him," he said in a cavalier fashion, gesturing.

Sam looked reluctantly, catching his brother's expression made of anger, stubbornness, the promise of ass-kickery in so many forms and despite so many obstacles. He had a slight inkling of the idea at which the Trickster was trying to hint. Then Dean's face fell slowly into resignation and it was gone. He took another long sip of beer before sniffing dismissively.

"So that's it then?" the elder Winchester asked quietly. "That's really it? Ah well," he sighed slowly, not looking at Sam. "I guess I do not pass go, do not collect two hundred bucks after all."

"No! This isn't _fair_!" Sam shouted angrily, making the other two jump. "You selfish bastard! You _can_ break it, you just don't _want_ to!" he cried. He turned to Dean, snatching up the wooden stake from the sofa next to him.

"Woah there, Sam--"

"No! He's just sitting there refusing to help you, Dean! Like some typical smug bastard cos he thinks he knows what's coming next for us! Well I've had it with these things playing with us and laughing at us! Him, his son, demons, _everyone_!" he railed.

He crossed the carpet between them and the Trickster in an instant.

"If you're not going to help us," he snarled, lifting the stake, "you're no good to us."

Edshu watched the stake plummet towards him.

Then he calmly snapped his fingers.


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

Jensen opened his eyes, finding his head down on his crossed arms on the desk under the window. He lifted his head slowly, looked around and then let his puzzlement show on his face for a long moment. He sat back in the chair, stretched and yawned, rubbing his face soundly.

His iPhone began to ring and he looked over at it. He leaned over, tapped to accept the call and then tapped at the speakerphone icon.

"Yeah?" he yawned, rubbing his nose carelessly.

"Hey Jensen, just me," came Jared's voice. "You ah… you alright? Where are you?"

"Yeah, I think," he admitted, looking round the trailer. "I'm in the home-from-home. Just… fell asleep, I guess."

"You did? I did too. Weird. Just woke up cos Sadie and Harley are hollering about food. I thought you said you were going to feed them before you went out?"

"Yeah I did, I…" He looked around the trailer, trying to think. "I didn't go out, though," he added, scratching his head in confusion. "Sorry, man. Hope they're not too sore at you."

"No. I was just checking you hadn't fed 'em before I did it again, that's all. You know they're crafty, they've pulled that trick before."

"Might have pulled that one myself on the coffee girl," Jensen smiled. He heard barking and laughed. "Woah, someone's pissed at you."

"Yeah, it's odd… they're… being a bit weird," Jared said slowly. The barking stopped.

"Weird?" Jensen asked. "When they hang round with you all day, how would you even notice?"

"Oh no, there goes my ass - guess I just laughed it off," he replied sarcastically, and Jensen could hear the grin in his voice. "You want a beer later? We're not on set till ten tomorrow morning."

"Be rude not to," Jensen smiled. "I'll find you later."

"Cool. Later," Jared chirped happily, and the line was cut.

Jensen got up from the table slowly, looking round and trying to think why he hadn't gone out after all. Nothing was forthcoming and he shrugged it off, going to the fridge and finding a bottle of water.

There was a knock at the trailer door and he looked over.

"Yeah," he called. The door opened and a head popped through the door.

"Hey Jensen," Eric said with a wide smile. "It's good to see you again."

"Again?" he asked. "I just saw you like--"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. Been writing - head's all mixed up," he grinned. "You busy later?"

"Not if whatever you've got going is about to include Jared," he said easily.

"It will. I was think of trying that new steak place in town - you know, the one with the Death By Chocolate desert on the menu," he grinned. "You in?"

"Always chocolate, huh?" Jensen teased. "Yeah, alright. Don't expect me to get all excited over the deserts though."

"Don't you worry about that," he said.

"And this time, we are _not_ letting Jared go overboard on the sugar. Last time he nearly got himself into a diabetic coma, the amount of sugary shit he was eating."

"Oh yeah - have to keep an eye on that," Eric laughed. "Have to take care of my Sims, after all."

Jensen shot him a quietly bemused look, Eric catching the uncertainty between polite blinks of his green eyes.

"My… Seriously Important Men - my _leads_!" Eric laughed. "I can't let anything happen to you two now, we've only got like two days of filming left!"

"Yeah… about that," Jensen said, suddenly more serious. "What's going down in the last scene? Why has no-one seen that part of the script yet?"

"Oh trust me," Eric winked, "you're in it. And believe me, it's a _reeeeal_ doozy. There's no way people are gonna be able to wait for season four to start."

"Riiiight," Jensen nodded gingerly, unconvinced.

* * *

Sam's eyes shot open and he bolted upright in bed, looking round hastily.

"Dean!" he called, worried.

"Hmm," came a muffled response from somewhere to his left. He looked over and found his older brother still mostly asleep.

He leapt out of bed and raced over, finding it a rare morning where Dean was on his back. He put two hands to his shoulder and rocked it violently.

"Wake up!" he hissed.

Dean tutted irritably, lifting a hand from under the covers and pushing him off quickly.

"What is it now?" he grumped, his eyes open and blinking up at Sam. "What time is it?"

"I - I don't know!" Sam gasped. "But… I had a really weird dream!"

"Lollipops and candy-canes? Or angels and unicorns?" he yawned, rubbing an eye.

"Dean!" Sam protested.

"Ok! What?" he asked, letting his hand drop.

"It was… it was… _Shit_!" he shouted suddenly, standing back from the bed. He slapped his hands to his head, dragging his hair from his eyes.

"It was shit? So why are you all eager to tell me what it was?" Dean groused, lifting his wrist to find it was exactly seven thirty in the morning. "Why don't you ever wake me up and say '_Dean, I had an awesome dream about seventy-two virgins and ice-cream sauce_'?" he yawned at the ceiling. "Hmm… ice cream sauce… They _all_ scream for ice-cream," he added wickedly.

Sam looked at him. "It's gone. It's gone! But I know it was about someone… someone we knew… Maybe… Bobby. Yeah, Bobby," he murmured uncertainly, walking back to his bed slowly. Dean scrubbed his hands through his hair, yawned again, and rubbed at his nose carelessly.

"Great. You dream about Bobby. That's… creepy," he admitted, sitting up. He felt for his amulet, found it hanging faithfully in place, and then shivered slightly. Thinking it probably had something to do with the absence of a t-shirt, he looked around for his duffle.

He sighted it and flung back the covers, putting his feet to the floorboards. He walked over to his duffle on the wooden table under the window, rifling through and deciding it wasn't worth it. He turned to find Sam already sliding back under his covers comfortably.

"Hey, come on. Four days left, remember?" Dean said clearly, and Sam huffed under his blankets.

"Yeah, I know. _Believe_ me, I know," he muttered. "I was going to go to the library - this one's got a good stock of really old books and a twenty-four hour reference section. Thought something might come up in there." _That's odd. Have I said that before?_ he asked himself suddenly.

"Fantastic. I'm going to get coffee and work out which of those two girls I'll call later today," Dean said with a dreamy smile, padding over and choosing towels from the rack on the wall.

"Knowing you, you'll just end up calling both of them," Sam snorted. Then he stopped short, a strange tickling feeling crawling over his skin. _And that. Have we done this before?_

"Y'know, that's not a bad idea," Dean grinned, going into the bathroom. "Why choose one when you can have both?"

"TMI, dude!" Sam called at the closed bathroom door.

"Keeping yourself stretched, that's the key," Dean called back.

"That's the key," Sam sighed, getting back out of bed and going to his duffle. The shower started and he shook his head, going through his duffle for clean clothes.

**_Exit shot:_**

_Music: Fade in 'Patience' by Guns n' Roses._

_Camera: close-up on Sam dir: determined face - he has four days left to save brother._

_Camera pulls back to encompass crazily-decorated motel room. Music only on soundtrack._

_Camera watches Sam pull out clothes, lingers on his determined attitude._

_Fade to black._

**_End credits._**

He sat back, looking at the laptop screen and grinning. He reached out and pressed the Command and S buttons to save everything he'd written since the last save a few seconds ago, as was his habit. He folded his arms, re-read the last few paragraphs, and grinned with triumph.

He leaned over and picked up his mobile, sniffing to himself in barely contained excitement as he found the number he wanted and pressed the call button.

He waited, the other line ringing painfully long. At last someone picked up.

"Eric Kripke's phone," came a cheerful voice.

"Oh, hi. It's Ben - Ben Edlund. Is Eric free?" he asked, forcing himself to breathe calmly.

"He is, please hold on," said the voice, and he heard the phone being passed along and vague voices explaining.

"Ben! Gimme something to smile about," said a voice.

"Eric?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm at this damn network meeting about season four. What can I do you for?" Eric asked more cheerfully.

"I've just this minute finished a script you might like," he grinned. "Want me to e-mail it to you?"

"Absolutely - it's stultifying over here. What is it? Angst? Revenge? Comedy?"

"Off the wall, man," Ben said with a cheeky grin, "off the friggin' wall."

"If it's anything like your '_Tall Tales_' or '_Bad Day At Black Rock_' then I'll look forward to it. Oh, and get this - the network's thinking of slicing up the budget into departments - I'm trying to swing a separate account for music," Eric chuckled.

"You are a genius," he grinned.

"Only if I get it. Think of all the stuff we could play on the show, man!"

"It would be cool. Well I'll keep my fingers crossed or just sell my soul to sponsors. Might even get out a beer right now to seal the deal," he replied with a chuckle.

"You do that, I need all the help I can get," he said. "Speak to you when this thing is over, hopefully with some good news."

"You always hope, don't you?" Ben smiled.

"Hope is the key," came Eric's amused voice. "Later."

"Yeah," Ben said, grinning and pressing the down button to end the call. He watched his thumb rub over the surface of the pad gently, musing to himself. "Hmm…"

He put the phone down, sat back and looked at the laptop critically. He leaned forward, scrolled up to find the very top of his work, and smiled. He pressed the delete key to remove '_3x21: Insert Title Here_' and then sat back, thinking.

He looked at the empty desk next to him and frowned. He snapped his fingers abruptly.

A six-pack of Budweiser flashed into existence on the desk right beside him. He grinned, then snapped his fingers again to create a side order of peanut M&Ms.

Then he looked back at the flashing curser, and the space for the episode title. He gasped suddenly and slapped his hands together, rubbing excitedly.

Then he leaned over and typed the title into the gap.

"_Supernatural Season three penultimate episode: 3x21. Title: **The Key**_", he read.

Then he laughed out loud and reached for a beer.

**THE END**

* * *

I know, I know, liberties cracked over the head and stolen left, right and centre. And yes, I know there wasn't an episode 3x21, but that's the point… Kinda…

Just to say, ta very much Eric (or to give him his full title in our house, '_The God Who Is Eric Kripke_') and Ben Edlund (everyone's favourite screenwriter) and everyone who writes, produces, cuts hair, paints sets, sorts wardrobe, sources props, lights sets, provides electric, moves cameras, adjusts dollies, fetches coffee, opens post, does make-up, guards gates, sweeps up, makes sandwiches or anything else I've forgotten that counts as working on the show.

And the five (?) Impalas, of course.

Roll on 18.09.2008!


End file.
